


Some Scars Fade

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Aramis sews Porthos up during the war, after their separation. (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Scars Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr with the prompt, "Aramis sewing one of Porthos's wounds for the first time post-timeskip"

He’s expecting Porthos to flinch when he puts his hands on him, starts working on the wounds there. Porthos stays still, his breathing even. Aramis blinks once, dabs at the wound – nothing too deep, but needing stitches, and Aramis reminds himself to breathe, too. 

He frowns at the scattering of scars over his ribs and back, things stitched up by a hand not Aramis’ own. It has been a long war and they have spent years apart, separated. Aramis knows this. He’s only now gotten back to his brothers, only now reminding himself how to be a musketeer proper. The first step, of course, is to check Porthos’ injuries. They are nearing the end of the war – Aramis can only hope that, from now on, he might be able to shadow Porthos’ back the way he’s meant to: protect him, keep an eye on him. 

He touches at one of the scars, knotty and jagged, lacking Aramis’ usual finesse. Aramis can see where the stitches once were, where the skin has knitted itself back together awkwardly, snarled and dragging, like some kind of morbid lacework. 

Porthos tips his head back from its ducked position so he can look at him. He’s looking a little paled from the attentions, betraying how much pain he’s really in, but he’s studying Aramis’ face as if afraid he was the one who is hurt. Aramis offers a weak smile. 

“I see we lack a surgeon of my skills,” he whispers, self-deprecating but just the tiniest bit disgusted – and the slant of Porthos’ eyebrows betrays that he heard the color of Aramis’ frustrations. 

“He got the job done,” Porthos says, watching Aramis very carefully for his reaction. 

Aramis closes his eyes and breathes out, presses his hand to the curve of Porthos’ spine. “I should have been here.” 

“You weren’t,” Porthos says, not unkindly. Aramis flinches anyway. Porthos sighs out. “No one is as good at it as you are.”

For once, Aramis does not take the bait offered, does not preen and throw around his own praises. He ducks his head, threads up his needle. He chews on the inside of his cheek, his bottom lip, his tongue – anything to keep from making the truly pathetic, longing sound of missed chances. He should have been here. He should have been here…

Porthos turns, touches at his wrist. Aramis doesn’t startle, but he does make a vaguely disapproving sound at Porthos moving around. 

“Oh, stop, I’m fine,” Aramis says with a steady breath, almost believes the lie. 

Porthos looks at him, offers a small smile, and turns around again. 

When Aramis does start to sew Porthos up, Porthos does not flinch, does not curse. There’s only a tension to his shoulders. This betrays the skills of the surgeon more than anything else. Aramis’ face darkens. 

“Porthos,” he says.

“You’re far gentler,” Porthos agrees before Aramis can voice the question. He breathes out. “Who’d have thought there’d be a day where you sticking me with needles could be relaxing in comparison?” 

Aramis does make a mournful sound this time, tips his head forward, presses his forehead to the back of Porthos’ head. He kisses the back of his neck, his hands shaking. 

“I’ll protect you from now on,” Aramis whispers – from bumbling surgeon’s hands and needles, from the hits that hurt worse than a needle ever could, from the betrayal of watching his retreating back – a pain worse than anything war could offer. His hands shake, touch at Porthos’ ribs, skim forward, touch his chest and cover his heart, the particular curve of a scar there. 

Porthos’ hand lifts, covers his. His hand is heavy and warm. 

“You damn romantic,” Porthos says, not accusing, but the lilt of amusement there – covering the distinct hitch in his breath that Aramis hears and pretends not to. He kisses the back of Porthos’ neck again in answer.


End file.
